Friday, November 2, 2012

Every year, the same conversation with Filiberto, the devoted gardener of the SJG. Filiberto's been schlepping with us, house to house, for a while now. He knows what ticks me off. "Filiberto, the squirrel's back. He's destroying the lawn." "It's not a squirrel. It's a raccoon." "Filiberto, we have the same discussion every year. I say squirrel, you say raccoon." "A squirrel couldn't do all this damage." "You're right. This time, we have two squirrels. The big guy, and his protege. He's teaching him how to destroy our lawn." "It's a raccoon," Filiberto says, stomping on the dirt with his big dude gardener boots. "Filiberto, you're doing the Dance of the Squirrels. I haven't seen that since last year." "It's the Dance of the Raccoons," he says. Squirrel or raccoon, what's the diff? The SJG is still ticked off. What do do? What. To. Do?

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About Me

I'm a writer: TV movies, plays, humor blogs. I'm the mother of two amazing sons, so menschy I could weep with pride, and often do, spontaneously. I'm a remarkably loving wife. I'm a crazy dog lady. I'm a kugel-maker. I'm a champion kvetch. At this point, everything hurts.